Manipulation
by ayslin
Summary: Loyalty to oneself above all. Slash, HPDM


Author: ayslin

Complete: Yes

Archive: Please ask first

Summary: Loyalty to oneself above all.

Feedback: I'd love to hear anything you'd like to say.

Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter? Hardly.

Author Notes: Many thanks to irisgirl for betaing this for me. She's fantastic. All mistakes are mine alone.

* * *

My flesh crawls with damnable fear as I begin up the steps of the astronomy tower. My arm throbs. I know he waits there. Not for me, per se, but nonetheless, I am coming. I am a means to his end. 

I round the final coil of the ridiculously narrow stairway and my gaze searches out his usual perch. I'm not disappointed.

The loss of the Mudblood has affected him spectacularly. He spends his time prowling the corridors, cloaked by only that infuriating impunity which has always governed his actions at this school. Searching out obscure nooks and crannies of the castle to seethe in. Annoying, really, given the time I've wasted in search of _him._

But the precarious ledge of this tower seems to satisfy him. Hm.

"Star-gazing, Potter?"

I would have been far more surprised had he answered me. And a bit disappointed, truth be told; I rather enjoy our game.

I step closer to him, following his eyes through the window, out across the Forbidden Forest, but his gaze is further reaching than my own. His back is unbent against the stone arch.

A sneer bleeding beautifully into my words, I continue, "Exercising your Divinations prowess?"

My lips drag me closer yet. They hover just above the soft flesh of his ear, tickled faintly by unruly black strands. I angle my breath, gently snaking it behind that same, unmarred ear. I hiss.

"I can tell you your future."

Not even a twitch. My eyes narrow and I thrust out my hand, fisting it in that raven hair. With a slight tug I force him nearer, closing the gap between my lips and his skin. My tongue flicks out in place of my exhale.

His gasp is not one of surprise.

"_Furnunculus!_"

Quick as my tongue, he's rounded on me. Ah, but Potter, I know you. I may play, but always on terms of my choosing. Dropping to the floor, I roll out of the direct path of the curse. I do not, however, move fast enough to avoid it entirely. A stray bit of magic licks my cheek.

Rising, I gingerly pat cold fingertips to the radiating skin. I twist my lips, ignoring the burning itch of protest.

"Very good," I drawl lazily. "Do remind me of this if ever I should need an adequate curse for sunburn."

He turns from me, dismissively. Oh, now, I do not appreciate that.

Perhaps I am wearier of our game than I had thought.

My features purse and harden as I continue, "But now, at least, I am not left wondering." I force a laugh. "With that pathetic display, it's obvious how your Weasel and pet Mudblood ended up as they did."

Check.

"_Crucio!_"

Through the pain, a small surge of triumph blossoms. Three weeks and he has finally broken. About bloody time.

He ends the curse, but not before I hit the ground convulsing. Not before I scream for him.

Checkmate.

I rise, slowly, deliberately allowing him time to fully appreciate his power. I tremble, but not overly so. He is still Harry Potter. When I finally straighten, my harsh glare a mirror of his own, he does not look away. A smirk pulls the corners of my mouth, painfully. This time, I seize him without pretense, adrenaline coursing through me.

Pressing into him, he stumbles back. He is pinned against the small bit of uncut stone between windows. Teeth bared, his mouth is mine.

The channeling of dark magic is an intoxicating experience. It leaves powerful urges in its wake. He does not refuse me.

His tongue is shoved down my throat, his teeth cut their imprint in the soft flesh of my neck, his cold fingers slither against the hot skin of my chest and his lips worry my collarbone. I press myself harder against his burning form. His hips respond.

My actions are independent of thought. I lick the salt from his skin. I suck the warmth of his lips, his tongue. My hand follows a gentle trail to the warm bulge at his crotch. He moans.

Roughly, I am shoved away. His eyes shoot daggers as I stumble back, catching myself before I hit the cold stone floor. He scrubs the coarse cuff of his robes over his moist lips, chin, cheeks. Surprisingly and irritatingly, a part of me is offended. I scowl, but approach him again nonetheless, my hand extended.

"Come."

His gaze darts to my forearm and he snatches my wrist. I feel the bruise beginning to form beneath his fingertips. His other hand pushes up my sleeve to just above the crease of my elbow. He is not surprised.

His eyes snap back to mine. They spark with hatred. He slides his grip down, fingernails slicing my palm. I am pulled to him and his arms are wrapped around me, and mine around him. His breathing comes in controlled gasps.

Burying my face in his slightly sweaty hair, I concentrate on the searing black skull blazed upon my forearm. A smirk flutters across my lips. I will be at the right hand of a Dark Lord tonight. Whether it the griffin's or the serpent's, the snake's or the lion's, is immaterial.

Fin


End file.
